Against Porn

Well, I finally made the decision. I had kind of made it before I left on the honeymoon, but the decision now seems rock solid. I have chosen my new author photo. I have already contacted Marion Ettlinger and should have all the legalities and stuff sorted by end of day. And a good thing, too, seeing Four Way needs it now for the back cover production. I went, in the end, with the photo of me in the dark jacket, the more serious one. The one that is somewhat stern but also vulnerable. The eyes in it are vulnerable. I liked the other photo, too. It seemed more natural, more like me, but in the end, it was too "porny," to quote Charlie Jensen. And when I polled people, I found it interesting that mostly young gay men liked that photo. It was a little too "Come Hither," too "take off your clothes now so I can have my way with you." And that isn't the real me anyway. Marion is amazing at capturing things like this in her subjects. As much as I liked the "porny" photo, it ended up seeming wrong for the book. Ah, the vanity of it all. But presenting oneself is also, in some sense, a business move, too. I chose serious poet over porny man. I guess I need to write a book deserving of that porny photo. Cavafy would be proud.


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The Madonna concert was amazing. I cannot believe how good it was. I also cannot believe how good Madonna still looks. She is in some serious shape! Anyway, our seats ended up being right next to the stage. One bad thing: Madonna has gotten somewhat preachy in her older age. She is still the Material Girl, but she is also a Serious Girl.


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Okay, time to get back to work. No hospital today, but I still have a lot to do.


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When you all have a chance, stop by and read Paul's post today. This from the man who isn't sure what one puts in a memoir. I think he may well write one of the most amazing memoirs considering what he wrote today.


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Bric-a-brac

Paul Guest has some good news to share.

Robert Thomas sees a connection between Cavafy and Norman Dubie.

Rebecca Loudon has discovered a fantastic Jackson Pollock site where you too can drip paint away, only digitally.

Lots of good stuff going on around the blogosphere.


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This is kind of bizarre, but someone at work walked in and asked me if I wanted to go to the Madonna concert tonight. I said: "How much?" Well, she said she would be able to get them for me at 2 for 1. Well the price sounded great, so I said sure. Well, I got the tickets and they are in section 1, row 14, on the floor! What the hell. These tickets on line are over $400 each. So, Jacob and I are off to see Madonna tonight. I hate to admit this, but the last time I saw Madonna in concert was 20 years ago.


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Spring, etc.

The Spring issue of NER has been out for a little over a week now, and we just updated our website. So stop by when you have a chance. The poems up on the web this time are by Debora Greger and Sarah Murphy. And, of course, the issue itself has many more poems, stories, essays, etc. If you like what you see or are curious, you are always welcome to subscribe. You would get a lot of Lit in a year for a very reasonable price! Okay, that is my one sales pitch of the quarter.


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Someone in France likes me. S/He spent close to 40 mins perusing this blog. I am a little nervous.


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The Tango poem really is done now. I read it out loud again last night after making the last changes. I am pretty excited. Number 2 of the year!


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Clue: I know, I know, It's serious...


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Ashbery Dissected!

Not sure how I missed this last week, but it is incredible. I think Josh does a fantastic job of dissecting Ashbery. He says quite intelligently what I have felt for a long time but could never find the words to describe. Makes me want to run back and re-examine Marianne Moore.

On attenuated hypotaxis: I did some reading around in Ashbery's Flow Chart while retreating and came to the provisional conclusion that syntax itself, or at least narrative syntax, is what that poem and much else by Ashbery seems to be "about." Over and over again I noticed hypotactic connectors being used that actually served to disconnect one line or sentence (his generally long lines largely efface the natural tension between line and sentence) from the next, rendering the referents of pronouns (especially "it") impossibly vague. I kept feeling like I was reading a fairy tale that consisted entirely of pleasant, slightly surreal variations on the phrase, "Once upon a time."

Those Uncanny X-Men

Saw the new X-Men movie yesterday. It was a lot of fun. It is weird to watch these movies having read the comics as a child. In many ways, the movies are faithful to the oddity of those comics, even if the storylines aren't always faithful. I still believe the original X-Men series was a social commentary on Anti-semitism. And I also believe the resurrected series took Homophobia on as a replacement for Anti-semitism. It is hard not to notice all the ways anti-gay and gay rhetoric is used in the X-Men. That many of the mutants "pass for" humans when they aren't. That they know they are different. That the world wants them to be quiet, to hide their mutant abilities. That being a mutant is considered "a sickness." That schemes are hatched to either round them up and send them to an island or, more recently, that there is "a cure" to change these poor mutants back to the human norm. There is even the dialogue in the X-Men where one or another of them will say things like "But we are normal. There is nothing wrong with us!" Fascinating. And somehow, the subconscious mind registers these things. Virtually every gay boy I know (in my age group) read these comics, watched the cartoons, etc. It wasn't that we didn't like Superman or Batman, but something about the X-Men spoke to us in a way the others couldn't. The X-Men understood alienation and the fact they were different in a way other superheroes never did.



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My kitchen table is covered in poems. Almost every inch of it. Covered. Sadly, they are not my poems.


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I give up. The Tango poem is not done. It is closer, but not done. I am annoyed now. I re-read it yesterday and had to make changes. I read it aloud and found mistakes everywhere: in line breaks, in cadence, in syntax, in diction. What is wrong with me? Why did I wait so long to read the poem aloud? Didn't I used to do this much earlier in the whole drafting process? Anyhoo, it is coming together quickly now that I have heard it aloud. Now that I can hear the lack of tension the line breaks have with regard to sound, I can hear how to change many of the lines to better capture that back and forth pull between line break and syntax. I know I am rambling and am making no sense. I think I need to just paint for a while and leave the poems be. It has been 13 years since I put paint to canvas. I need to return to image and force myself to rely on different senses, need to relearn how to show even the subtlest breath against the earlobe without having to write a dissertation about it!


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Clue: Both the concubine and the pig live in this word.


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Information Suggests

A good friend was in town visiting for a conference, which was a good excuse to go book store trawling. I finally replaced my Complete O'Hara, which had gone missing for years now. All I had was the tiny Selected Poems. Also found a book of "retrieved" poems by O'Hara, poems culled from letters he sent to friends throughout his life. I am excited to sit down and read them. Also picked up Ashbery's Selected Prose, which people tell me is spectacular. Picked up Heaney's new book as well. And I finally found a copy of Rouge State, by Rodney Koeneke. I have read some of his poems over the years and admired them, so it was nice to finally lay my hands on a copy of the book. So I now have quite a lot of reading to add to my stack!


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My partner, Lisa, took call for me last night so we could all go out to dinner. We drank a lot of champagne. A lot. But a good time was had, and we had great conversations about Whitman, Emerson, Dickinson, friendships in the Arts and Sciences, Literature by minorities, the now vast numbers of poets graduating from MFA Programs, publishing, the role of the editor, Percy Shelley being resurrected from the dead by Harold Bloom, the evolution of Harmony via Bach and others, Brahms, and much more.


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My Tango poem is not done. While roaming bookstores yesterday, I started to "re-hear" the lines in places and knew, instantly, things had to be changed. So, back to tinkering.


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#35

You, a pub quiz Alexander
and me, a Nefertiti of the bunco squad--
to take this business lying down?
The gender of information suggests
that suffragettes hide curves
under dirty burkahs.  Your answer,
         lathed piano keys
is final
and gets at a certain sense of labor
but not the one our girls were looking for.

Catch me, I'm feral
and short on breath.  Behind these tannins
lurks a palate blonde
as any Janissary's,
snatched from the village to serve out his years
as a grunt in the mullah's cortege.

Gender is an empire
run on sesame and tea.
If saltness lose its peanuts,
who oils the sno-cone machine?
Good wine in peevish wineskins
dries up by inning five

Just as our thoughts of joining the Great Man sequence
lost out to a rakish dignity
in which we refused the groovy privilege
of the first -class airport lounge:
solar topees and free bocce balls
to lob across the rooftop topiary,
asserting themselves in the muffled phuk
of silver sand.

Me, a hostile leftover
and you, a Paleolithic mother god--
hippy, odiferous and grinning
among the better thrift shop bric-a-brac.

--Rodney Koeneke


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Okay, today, I will see X-Men. I just have to.


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For Two Pianos

I am on call starting today at 5:00pm, so no big plans for the weekend. I am, however, going to the Symphony tonight with Jacob to hear Haydn's Symphony No. 98, Mozart's Concerto for Two Pianos, Poulenc's Concerto for Two Pianos, and Ravel's La Valse. Our subscription was weird in that our concerts were clumped at the beginning and the end of the Season. Since I am on call, we cannot head out of town or anything. But I am definitely going to see the new X-Men movie! I am completely excited about that.


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Various mumblings around about Contemporary Polish Poetry. Some mumblings as well about the not so contemporary Polish Poetry. Can't say I am terribly swayed or moved by these mumblings. No disrespect, but I happen to admire much of Zbigniew Herbert's work. And Milosz, too! But taste is taste. Where one finds boredom, another finds fun. In fact, I like it that way. Who wants to live knowing everyone liked the same things you did? I like the poetry of Olive Senior. But I am glad others don't. I even relish the fact many don't even know who she is!


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Don Justice visited me again last night. This time, all he said was "Is that all?" Ah Don, even in the afterlife you are still frightening with your brevity. But hey, I would gladly accept a visit from Don, a man I knew, over the visits I get from Ashbery, whom I have never met! Oh the world of dreams.


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Clue: Still ballin' til the day I die...


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In Need of a Ban on Clay Aiken's Hair

Apparently, the Spring issue of NER is out and about. As usual, I have not yet seen it in the flesh, so to speak. But others have and have emailed or called me. I think it is a pretty good issue, but I am obviously biased. As soon as the website has been updated I will post more info here.


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I found the American Idol finale last night to be more than a little weird. It was a strange combination of award shows like the Grammys, what with Mary J Blige and Prince performing, and one of those awful outtake shows like America's Funniest Home Videos. They kept giving out stupid awards and replaying moments from the auditions. Gag! Who wanted to see that again! As predicted by many, Taylor Hicks won. Whatever. I hope I am proven wrong, but I sense a one-hit wonder coming down the pipeline.

And what on God's green earth is up with Clay Aiken's hair? It looked like a cross between the Beetles and a MOP after cleaning up maple syrup! Can we say HIDEOUS.

And at two hours long, the show still had commercials every 4-7 mins. I suspect more than anything the length of the show is dictated by Newscorp, which now must make more money from Idol than any other show on Fox. For God's sake, Coke pays 15 million a year just to have the cups in front of the judges say Coke on them.


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And if you haven't done so yet, stop by and congratulate Gina Franco on receiving a Fellowship to attend this summer's Bread Loaf Writers' Conference. Other blogger, Richard Siken, will also be there as a Fellow. Should be a good group on the mountain this summer.


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Valued Capacities

This is what happens when you combine too much hot chocolate with the Yakutat Bay. Scary.


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So, everyone seems to think Taylor is going to win tonight. Gag!


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I think the Tango poem is finally done. I think. It feels more stable now. It doesn't yield to my touch anymore.


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Clue: Beware Greek men who work on ships when you are in the Sauna!


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Magical Flowers

A very interesting mini-interview with Tony Tost (found via Charlie). I find what Tost says about his MFA days to be kind of terrifying. Sadly, it is a story I have heard before many times.


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I am in full tinkering mode now with the Tango poem. It has possessed me. It has me possessed? Possession by poem. Procession?


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Ah, those magical flowers!











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Thinking a lot lately about the supposed purity of the artistic endeavor. I suspect I don't really believe the making of Art is a pure thing. Can it be? I am not sure it can be. I know people who do believe this. But I am not a believer. The making of Art seems connected to the Life, the living. How can it ever be pure?


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Clue: From Leaf to Air to Ground...


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One In a Billion

Business event from 5:30-7:30PM tonight. So, I will not likely make it home in time to catch American Idol. That said, I am not particularly interested in either of the people left in the competition. This is a first. Usually I like at least one of the people left on the show.


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Again... If you are looking for hard-core lit or poetry talk, you need to look elsewhere. Yes, I am a poet. Yes, I am also an editor, but this space has never been exclusively about either thing. For God's sake, it says right at the tip of the blog that this is a space devoted to distraction. Where did I ever say this was a blog dedicated to literature. Jeez. And don't send me any emails complaining that I don't talk about poetry enough or about whatever. There are like a billion blogs out there. Those who come here to read have an idea of what to expect here. End of story.


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Have to get going. Need to be at the hospital soon.


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Clue: A Spoonful of Sugar...


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In Fire or Lime

Back to work at the hospital today. I am strangely kind of excited. No idea what I have in store for me, but my partner will be there, so at least I won't be alone.


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Yesterday, I caught up with some of the work that accumulated for NER while I was away. Read some good poems.


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Still tinkering with my tango poem. Yes, I am now referring to it as a poem and not a draft. It is getting close to finished, I think. It is almost there, but still not there yet.


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DULCE ET DECORUM EST

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys! - An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime...
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, -
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

--Wilfred Owen


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There You Have It

I found this article today while surfing. I had no idea it was published. I remember getting an email that spoke of writing an article, but I never heard any more about it. One thing is definitely true in this article: William Logan really is one of the best teachers. He actually really loves to teach. Something tells me even if he won the Lotto, he would still be teaching.

The Hummingbirds of San Francisco

I took this photo in Butchart Gardens in Victoria, BC. Does anyone have a clue what flower this is? I was so fascinated by it, I never looked at the little sign on a stake.



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I hope this doesn't spark a crapstorm, but I am asking this question with all sincerity: At what point does the waiting time for a response from a magazine become intolerable? I ask because over and over I hear from people that they simultaneously submit because they have to wait too long. 98% of the time, NER responds to poetry submissions within 10 weeks. Sometimes, depending on where in the season we are, we respond in under 4 weeks. If your poem is close to being accepted, it may take as long as 16 weeks, but you would probably hear from me about the status of the poem(s) within the 10 week time frame. So, I am seriously asking this question. At what point does the waiting become ridiculous? I send out poems, too. But I guess I either have patience or am too busy to fixate on the time lag. Is 10 weeks too long a time to wait? Is 12 weeks? 15 weeks? 20 weeks? I am trying to get a handle on how people think about this. I seriously want to hear your ideas on this.



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Hope to find time to sift through the recent Ploughshares, edited by Kevin Young.


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Twice now I have seen a hummingbird outside my studio's windows. Twice in the past month. I had never seen one in San Francisco in the eight years I have lived here, and then in one month I have seen two. I hope this isn't a psychotic event.


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Congratulations!

And before I forget, a very big Congratulations to Richard Siken. His book, Crush, won both the Thom Gunn Award for Poetry (finalists: Frank Bidart and Peter Covino) and the Lambda Book Award for Poetry (Finalists: Mark Doty, Timothy Lui, Martin Pousson, and Aaron Smith) this very month.

The Prodigal

We came back to earth today--well, to land at least. Still having a hard time believing I was away for 12 days. But we were excited to be back in our place, and we were excited to be back in San Francisco. Now, a ton of laundry to do!


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I think we might go see The Da Vinci Code tonight. I don't think it is getting great reviews, but we are curious to see what Ron Howard did with the book.


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I was sad to learn that Stanley Kunitz passed away. He was one of the most gracious men.


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Lastly, here are two photos I took at the Hubbard Glacier. The photos don't do it justice.

Last Day at Sea

We dock tomorrow morning in SF. I cannot believe the time is up. I haven't been on a vacation this long since 1993. And we couldn't have asked for a better, more relaxing, more fun honeymoon. I am totally sold on Celebrity Cruises. They really do treat you famously, as their slogan says. We have been thoroughly spoiled. Not sure any cruise we ever take will ever match up to this one, especially because we were in a Royal Suite. One doesn't honeymoon often.


**************************************


Back to work on Monday, but I am actually kind of excited for that. That is something I never imagined I would say. I miss the patients. I miss the work. I miss a lot.


**************************************


My small mind has already begun again, to think of lines for poems. It may be a long time to arrive, but the poet-mind is working again.


**************************************


I have decided that in some former life I was a sailor.


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Clue: No guts, no glory....


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The saga continues...

I am in total shock. I entered the slot tournament today and won! I just pocketed $1,031. And we won an original Marko oil painting at Auction this morning. I am just totally loving this vacation.

O Fortuna

So, yesterday afternoon, after returning from Sitka, Jacob and I went to a Private Party Art viewing, where we got to view a Chagall, some Dali etchings, several Miro, and a bevy of Rembrandt etchings. After drinking champagne and listening to various tidbits about the art, several of the folks at this private party began buying up the works. It was unreal. One guy offered to buy all 12 of the Dali works. Just like that! Anyway, I told Jacob we should swing by the casino.

Since I have been on the ship, I have won about $450 at a slot named Wheel of Fortune. I am sure I have lost back most of it, but such is life. Anyway, yesterday, I sit down at Wheel of Fortune and drop money in twice. 3 7's pop up on the line and I won $100. I play again a few more times and again win $100. I cashed out and while collecting the money I start talking to the cashier guy. He told me the Wheel must love me and I should go play the other one. Well, I wasn't going to do it, but I did it. 3 plays in I get the Wheel of Fortune bonus. I spin the wheel. It lands on $1,000!!!!!!!!! Instead of screaming, I begin laughing maniacally. Bells are going off. Other people are a chorus of "Oh My God..."

After they came over and paid me the money, Jacob and I ran down to the reception desk and paid off our bar tab! Can we say I now LOVE Wheel of Fortune.

Priscilla

Throughout the trip, usually in the morning, we go out on to our deck and proclaim: "Oh Felicia, where the fuck are we?" Well, yesterday, while anchored in the harbor of Icy Strait Point, there were three whales that kept circling the ship. We think they were playing. Anyway, the whole ship kept tracking them. Jacob, in keeping with our informal theme, nicknamed them Mitzie, Felicia, and Bernadette. I guess this ship should be renamed "Priscilla, Queen of Tundra."


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Today, we go sea otter watching. Secretly, I am hoping for Orca!


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David Bowie Was Not Driving the Bus...

But his freakin' twin was! We were sitting at a cafe in Skagway yesterday when this tour bus drove by and I saw him, the Bowie look-alike. I had to laugh that only I would see something like this!


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Alaska has to be one of the most beautiful places on earth. I mean awe-inspiring beauty. Sea-kayaking near the Mendenhall Glacier, taking a narrow-track train up to the summit of White Pass, all of it. My brain is in overload from so much beauty. Today we are tendered in a harbor near Icy Strait Point. The day is gorgeous. The water inky and dark despite the brilliant sunlight. Snow-capped mountains ring the harbor. It will take a long time for me to process so much incredible imagery. A long time. Photos when I get back.


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Jacob has been good. He has written a chunk of a scherzo for his string quartet. I have written nothing. I haven't even looked at a draft or tinkered with anything. I did log in and process payroll for the Practice. My only work related thing so far. It felt weird.


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Clue: I don't give a damn...


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From Juneau

The Hubbard Glacier yesterday was one of the most incredible things I have ever seen. A wall of ice advancing. A wall 4 times as long as the ship we are on, which is pretty amazing. When the glacier calved, the sound was awesome. I now understand why they call it white thunder.

Today, we sea kayaked near another glacier. I am exhausted from it. Mostly, I am just overwhelmed with the beauty of Alaska. It really is more awesome than I could ever have imagined.


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Friday Morning

The craps saga continues. Lost $100 last night. We arrive at Hubbard Glacier in a few hours. The excitement on the ship is palpable. Almost found myself wanting to work on a poem yesterday. The feeling died while swimming in the salt water pool heated to body temp. Alas.


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Steve Almond is a friend of mine, not a good friend, but a friend. Today, however, he is more than that goofy fiction writer I know. Today, I am so freakin' proud of him I could, I could, I don't know. Hell, I could even go to Home Depot and buy a nail gun if I were home. Here is why I am proud of him. I don't have access to my regular email addressbook here on the ship. So, if any of you know him. Tell him I am proud as holy hell of him for doing something like this, especially at my alma mater.


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Yes!

So, in the continuing saga of craps, we won $150 last night. This time, we ran from the table. Today, Jacob wanted to play Munsters, so we went to the Casino. I never win at slot machines, but I won $250 at Wheel of Fortune! And then I won another $150 on two other slots. So, we ran to the spa! We were there for hours.


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My mom emailed to tell me that Chris was voted off of Idol. I am in total shock. The final three are not what I ever imagined at the start of the season. I think I am losing interest quickly.


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We were worried we might be one of the only gay couples on this cruise. Well, we aren't. We keep seeing them here and there. Hell, the waiters all sang Happy Honeymoon to us the first night at dinner and brought us a chocolate heart-shaped cake!


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Clue: $15,000 for a leather bustiere? I didn't care...


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Day 3

Last night, we lost back the money we won the night before. Why? Because we were drunk. We had dinner at the SS United Restaurant, the premium dining room on the ship. Over three hours and five courses, we ended up drinking a bottle of Veuve Cliquot 1999 Brut Rose and a bottle of St. Francis Reserve Cabernet Sauvignon. Alas, we were up 150% at the craps table but were too drunk to realize it, so we played til we lost!

Got up this morning in Victoria. We went ashore and made our way to Butchart Gardens. Dear God in Heaven, flowers! I mean intense. It was spectacular. Came back to the ship and hung out in the spa, first for lunch, then for Turkish Bath, then Thallasotherapy pool. Came back to our cabin to find our butler had already set out cheese plate and shrimp cocktail, which meant we had to have cocktails. I swear to God I will need a serious diet when I get back.


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Have yet to open my computer to even think about working on a poem. I only seem to open it to download photos from the camera.


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Up the Inside Passage we will go and will reach the Hubbard Glacier on Friday. I cannot believe I have never been on a cruise before.


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Ahoy!

Sailing out of SF Bay up the Golden Gate and under the Bridge had to be one of the most amazing things ever. So far, we are having a great time. Today, we might have to discover the Elemis Spa on board. Last night, we lost track of time and almost missed dinner. But we also more than doubled our money playing craps in the casino. Not bad at all.


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Jacob is planning on getting a chunk of a string quartet written while on board. I had planned on maybe working on some stuff for poems. I am now not so hopeful. I am suddenly overcome with a kind of laziness I have never experienced.


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Clue: Tuxedo, Cognac, and a doughnut!


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This Moonless Gathering

Rebecca Loudon posted yesterday about the clematis in her yard coming into bloom. It is amazing how a single word can ignite a fire of thought and remembrance. Within seconds of reading the word clematis, I was already thinking of its poisons, the way a somewhat infamous woman used its blooms to kill off her husbands one by one, the way the art of poison seems to have been the preferred means of killing used by affluent and influential women throughout the ages, the pharmacopoeia of poison. My brain just kicked into overdrive. Like the almond, the clematis has a rich and fascinating history in the world of poison. The Yew Tree, a handful of fungi, flowers of every variety: poison.

The Chinese Emperors, smarter than the Roman ones, kept herbologists in their court. Their job was to concoct antidotes and to "inoculate" against poisons. Would that the Emperor Tiberius have learned such a lesson... Instead, after an afternoon of hedonistic activities in the Bath, he gorged on figs. Not only was he lacking an herbologist, but he also lacked good memory. His own mother had poisoned men by tainting figs with poison. Why figs? One could apply the poison while they were still on the tree. In the dead of night, if caught, one could simply say one were checking the figs by the light of the moon. Wealthy women often worshipped goddesses associated with night and the moon. No one would have thought it odd at all. Ah, the witches and wizards of the ages who took their power from herbs and poison. They were revered and feared. Is it no wonder, even today, people both love and despise doctors. Aren't doctors not the last remnant of the witch and wizard? Many of our medicines come from the natural world. Many if taken incorrectly, are poison.


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Clue: A what? An Egg McMuffin.


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THE LEAVING


My father said I could not do it,
but all night I picked the peaches.
The orchard was still, the canals ran steadily.
I was a girl then, my chest its own walled garden.
How many ladders to gather an orchard?
I had only one and a long patience with lit hands
and the looking of the stars which moved right through me
the way the water moved through the canals with a voice
that seemed to speak of this moonless gathering
and those who had gathered before me.
I put the peaches in the pond's cold water,
all night up the ladder and down, all night my hands
twisting fruit as if I were entering a thousand doors,
all night my back a straight road to the sky.
And then out of its own goodness, out
of the far fields of the stars, the morning came,
and inside me was the stillness a bell possesses
just after it has been rung, before the metal
begins to long again for the clapper's stroke.
The light came over the orchard.
The canals were silver and then were not.
and the pond was--I could see as I laid
the last peach in the water--full of fish and eyes.



--Brigit Pegeen Kelly


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Quartz, Granite, and Basalt

We are busy doing laundry and packing. 2 weeks of cruise equals a lot of clothes! Also had to run out and buy batteries for the digital camera, new outdoor shoes for me, etc. Also had to buy swim trunks for the spa. I so wish we were leaving today. I think I will explode from anticipation before tomorrow at noon. I am so looking forward to our private 200 sq ft deck with our own private jacuzzi hot tub on the deck. Dear God, I may never want to come home at the end of the trip.


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Still finishing up my NER work. It was more than I expected. So many poems.


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I think the real estate market here is starting to soften. A house across the street from us was listed at $998,000. It sold for $604,000. This is shocking. I have never, since I have lived in SF, heard of a house selling below asking price. And this was a nice house. Maybe we will be able to buy a place in the future after all.


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Still tinkering with "La Revancha del Tango." This is a good thing.


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Claudia Emerson talks about her work on Newshour.


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BEACH GLASS

While you walk the water's edge,

turning over concepts

I can't envision, the honking buoy

serves notice that at any time

the wind may change,

the reef-bell clatters

its treble monotone, deaf as Cassandra

to any note but warning. The ocean,

cumbered by no business more urgent 

than keeping open old accounts

that never balanced,

goes on shuffling its millenniums

of quartz, granite, and basalt.

                    It behaves

toward the permutations of novelty--

driftwood and shipwreck, last night's

beer cans, spilt oil, the coughed-up

residue of plastic--with random

impartiality, playing catch or tag

or touch-last like a terrier,

turning the same thing over and over,

over and over. For the ocean, nothing

is beneath consideration.

                    The houses

of so many mussels and periwinkles

have been abandoned here, it's hopeless

to know which to salvage. Instead

I keep a lookout for beach glass--

amber of Budweiser, chrysoprase

of Almadén and Gallo, lapis

by way of (no getting around it,

I'm afraid) Phillips'

Milk of Magnesia, with now and then a rare

translucent turquoise or blurred amethyst

of no known origin.

                    The process

goes on forever: they came from sand,

they go back to gravel, 

along with treasuries

of Murano, the buttressed

astonishments of Chartres,

which even now are readying

for being turned over and over as gravely

and gradually as an intellect

engaged in the hazardous

redefinition of structures

no one has yet looked at.

--Amy Clampitt


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The Evidence: One Week Later

NEVER Have an Event at The Lodge at Sonoma!

Charlie has some good news! Stop by and wish him well.


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Let it be said here: NEVER Never EVER hold an event at the Lodge at Sonoma. They will bait and switch you. They will spring charges on you that never appeared in your contract. They will fuck up your bill. They will nickel and dime you. And most of all, they are completely unprofessional and incompetent. It might look like a small Lodge aimed at giving great service in the Wine Country, but they are in fact nothing more than a bad Marriott. Stay away from them. You have all been warned.


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I am halfway through my stacks of NER submissions. Lots of good stuff. Makes me happy.


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Yes!

I just completed the on-line check-in for our cruise to Alaska. I am now so excited I could spit! No hospital until May 22nd. Tomorrow, I will sit down and clear off my desk of NER work. And then, I am FREE!!!! I just don't know what to do with myself.


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Robert waxes philosophic. Plato would be proud? Scared?


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Come On

Received a copy of the new collection by Carl Phillips. Haven't yet had a chance to read it. It is a beautiful book. His books usually are.


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I am off from work starting tomorrow. Will be off until the 21st. I am so ready to be off!


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Now that National Poetry Month is gone, tell me your favorite new book of poems you have read so far in 2006? Come on... Tell us. Inquiring minds want to know.


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Truth

I am floating between things lately. At least it feels like that. Still wanting to tinker with the new poem, but haven't been able to make time or to get back into that "space." But I will get back to it, eventually.


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Sometimes things too good to be true are simply not true. An old teacher once said this to me. I thought it cynical at the time, but I don't think it cynical anymore. When something too good to be true just materializes in front of you, it is almost never "true." Things that are true make themselves known as such over time. Maybe I am just an overly cautious person.


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Clue: Snake in the grass never becomes bird in the trees.


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Quandary

Just got my author photo proofs last night. I have it down to two photos. Jacob likes one and I like one. Actually, I like both but am leaning more toward one than the other. It was very easy to select the photo for my first book, but I don't have an overwhelming sense this time. One is softer, makes me look slightly sly, a little devious. The other is darker, more stern. A vote off is happening right now among people I trust who are ultra discriminating about stuff like this. The good thing is I don't think I can make a "wrong" decision, and that is good.


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Business meeting lunch today and then business meeting dinner this evening. Yuck!


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Got the galleys for my poem in Fall 06 issue of Kenyon Review. Always funny when your original is correct but the galley isn't. I know my Chicago Manual of Style!


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No More Bungalows

I was so tired this morning I didn't blog before heading in to work. And I have been busy enough that I haven't had time to post anything until now. Thinking about the poem recently drafted. Already have revisions in mind. Second poem of the year. It may actually be my first, but I have to go back and check. Not sure.


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Lots of reports of the protests and boycotts in the news, but I am not really sure what is happening here in the Bay Area. Need to look in to that.


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Had to open a rollover IRA today with Schwab. Long story. Cannot even stand to go into it here. One last hangover from the old medical group.


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UPPER WORLD

If sadness
is akin to patience,

                  we're back!


Pattern recognition
was our first response

to loneliness.

Here and there were like
one place.

But we need to triangulate,
find someone to show.


     *

There's a jolt, quasi-electric,
when one of our myths
reverts to abstraction.

Now we all know
every name's Eurydice, 
briefly returned
from blankness

and the way back
won't bear scrutiny.

High voices
over rapid-pulsing synthesizers
intone, "without you" --

which is soothing.

We prefer meta-significance:

the way the clouds exchange
white scraps
in glory.

No more wishes.

No more bungalows
behind car-washes
painted the color of
swimming pools

--Rae Armantrout


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